


Insanity, wasn't it?

by WindyRein



Category: Death Note
Genre: Gen, Insanity, Introspection, mention of murder, mention of rape, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WindyRein/pseuds/WindyRein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I suppose it's a desert with jagged, little pieces of glass buried in it. I am ten and something I later might call insanity was a thing I almost wanted to never stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Insanity, wasn't it?

**Author's Note:**

> Not quite as BB as I'd like it to be but what can you do...
> 
> Anyway, tell me if I've missed something and you get traumatized (also, have I rated this right? o.O)

I’ve been wondering about it for a while now but it always eludes capture. It’s like something slippery you want to hold and you even catch it for that second that it takes for triumph to show on your face but then it slides away and you’re only left with disappointment.

I’m not even sure what it is, a feeling or intuition or something else completely. It’s something that lurks in shadows and makes quick attacks at you before disappearing and melding again with darkness. It’s something that lurches in your mind and laughs at you when you futilely try to catch it.

Maybe it’s a state of mind, something close to but completely unlike nirvana and its peaceful waves of nothing. I suppose it’s a desert with jagged, little pieces of glass buried in it. I think it could be something like a meadow made of black that causes lacerations when you touch it. My mind tells me it’s a black and white world that numbs you and throws your personal gravity sideways.

The closest I ever got to catching it was when I was around ten and had a fever. A fever so high it made me delusional. It made me feel things that weren’t there, things that made me want my mom there to soothe the edges and wait ‘till I fall asleep, something like a guardian. But, they were things I, on some perverse level, wanted to feel. I wanted to be trapped in that colourless world that made me walk on walls and feel like I was the prey of something my childish mind couldn’t understand. I wanted to feel the saw-like edges cutting into my skin without breaking it. I wanted it and feared it and wished it away yet almost prayed it would stay since it all felt so nice.

I was ten and something I later might call insanity was a thing I almost wanted to never stop.

Yet I got better. The fever went down and in a year or two those ghost blades and odd changes in my sight were only a memory, at least close to it.

Then about seven years later, I was left alone for a few days. Something the other kids would’ve thought a blessing but only made me familiarize myself again with a feeling that had me talking out loud. A feeling I would’ve caressed and hugged and never let go while all the time stabbing it and wishing it would leave me alone.

Yes, I suppose, you could call me crazy, insane, so far gone that the only merciful thing would be to put me in a room with padded walls and no corners, yet I think this paranoia is something that makes life more interesting and much more entertaining. Is it really something that should be feared? No, I don’t think so but that might be because of my close familiarity and many meetings with it.

Some would call me a freak; others would look at me with a pitying smile and only say that I’m troubled and that it can all still get better. They would say I can be cured, that I can become a responsible member of the society and start paying my taxes like everyone else does already.

But then again, that was something he understood. He knew I could never be like all those ants scurrying along the streets in fear of losing their job or apartment. I suppose, that’s why he let me go that first time. I’m almost certain it was the reason why he locked me up after the dolls. Then again, he if anyone should’ve known better. One like me doesn’t just get better to be released into the wild like some formerly wounded swan. Someone like me who has touched it, made a friend of it, someone who has taken their time to get to know it and then let it run free and unrestrained can never be amongst those called normal.

But that was the problem wasn’t it? No-one knew what I know anymore. The only one who did, got overwhelmed by it, I’d even say scared but it’s rude to speak bad of the dead, so I’ll stick with overwhelmed. I never really understood why he was so scared that he wanted an escape. I couldn’t fathom the reason why he didn’t embrace it, like I did.

Yet, I still do not know what I’m talking about and neither do you. But does it really matter? I think the only things that matter are right here in this little room. This room, for now, is the world and maybe if I die I’ll be free of this curse my parents brought on me. But I’m getting off-topic, aren’t I, my squeaky little friend? I was supposed to explain it and try understanding it but there’s nowhere to go. All doors have been tried and none of them budged.

None of these things I have in here could help me understand and the people behind the door only look at me down their nose or try raping me. Like that happened more than once.

Yet they don’t know me and I still try explaining to them, at least to some. Most of them are scared of me now, almost as if they think I’ll pounce on them and go for their jugular with my teeth. That was a once in a lifetime special, the bastard should’ve been happy to get the honour. Once in a lifetime, like that dream I had. The one where green things were growing from my leg like roots sprouting from the soil, making connections and then continuing their trip higher and higher and higher until I woke. Almost like green rhubarbs they were, only smaller in diameter.

I think this thing people call insanity is nothing like the real thing. The real thing has bouts of it. Some days are mundanely boringly normal and some are filled with needles having speed competitions up and down your back.

I think they should’ve taken the hint when I dyed my angel blond hair to the black of raven wings, when I coloured the surroundings of my eyes since I never was good in that staying up all night thing. They should’ve gotten rid of me when they noticed for the first time it wasn’t the one they thought it was they were talking to.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like; if I could’ve shared it with the two I called brothers.


End file.
